


a perfect game

by girlmarauders



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: A Softer Hockey, Best Friends, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-16 12:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16086602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarauders/pseuds/girlmarauders
Summary: I read bowling pins like tea leavesevery pin I knock downis a boy who'll break my heartand I always bowl a perfect game.





	a perfect game

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
> they're #bestfriends and tyson makes poor relationship choices. nate's always there for him, is always gonna be there for him. nate's also a bit in love with him. it's not a big deal and it's not going to change anything. except it IS and maybe it DOES?

Nate wakes up when his phone buzzes on his bedside table, the sound pulling him from sleep with a start. He runs a hand over his face, blinking and trying to remember what he was dreaming about. It’s already slipping away, but he’s left with the niggling feeling of having forgotten to do something. He’s half slumped on top of his pillows, still in the shirt he usually takes off before he falls asleep. Why had he been waiting up? His phone buzzes again, and he remembers. Tyson, he was waiting up for Tyson.

He flips his phone over and sees the most recent text.

_hey u awake? can u come get me?_

He flicks the notification and types, _sure where are you?_ and then scrolls through the rest of his texts.

_man this blows_

_burritos tho_

_urgh_

and then the most recent _hey u awake? can u come get me?_

His phone buzzes in his hand.

_:) 168 Poplar in Cherry Lake_

_omw_ he texts back, and rolls out of bed. He pulls on a pair of shorts off the floor and slips on slides by the door. His keys are in his coat pocket and he grabs it off the kitchen table rather than put it on, throwing it into the back seat of the car when he climbs in the driver’s side. The garage door closes behind him, he flicks on his lights and pulls out of his driveway.

The GPS gets him there in about twenty minutes. His phone buzzes in the driver door a few more times, but he doesn't pick it up. He'll read Tyson’s texts later.

Tyson is standing in a nondescript driveway, the only light in the house a bedroom window, the curtains drawn. He's in just a t-shirt and jeans, his arms crossed over the front of his body. Nate pulls up on the curb and flicks his lights at him, his shoes making a soft shuffling sound on the concrete as he jogs over.

Tyson climbs into the passenger seat and drops his phone into the well between the seats.

“Hey dog,” he says, grinning. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” he says, and pulls the car out again. “How was it?”

“Urgh,” Tyson says, and waves a hand like he doesn't want to talk about it, even though he definitely will. “I should have taken my car and bailed early. We went for burritos. That was the best part.”

Nate makes a non-committal sound, and lets Tyson run, talking about the lame burrito place and the bad conversation. It's not really new. Tyson never takes his car, even though he definitely should, and Nate’s picked him up a lot after dates, hook-ups, whatever, Nate doesn't really know what Tyson calls them in his head.

He pauses at a turn.

“You want me to take you to yours?” he asks, looking across at Tyson. He chews on his lip for a second, and then looks sideways at Nate.

“I can crash at yours right?”

Nate nods.

“Yeah for sure,” he says, and indicates the turn, even though there's no one else on the road. It never hurts with Denver drivers.

Tyson kicks his shoes off in Nate’s hallway, and goes through to the kitchen, Nate trailing after him. Tyson knows his way around Nate’s kitchen, and is already digging food out of his fridge. It's the season, so there's not a lot of snack food in there, but Nate’s watched him eat cottage cheese out of the container with a spoon before. He’ll find something.

“You want bagels?” Tyson asks, twisted from looking in one of Nate’s cabinets, and Nate shrugs.

“Sure,” he says. They eat bagels with cream cheese in Nate’s bed, brushing the crumbs onto the floor. Nate feels drained and sleepy, but Tyson’s got energy to spare, talking with his mouth full.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks, when Nate sets his plate on the floor.

“Sure,” he says, and pulls his laptop onto the bed. Tyson scrolls through netflix for a while before he chooses some kind of comedy, with the sound low and the subtitles on. Nate lets his head fall sideways onto Tyson’s shoulder.

“I really need to stop hooking up with people off grindr,” Tyson says, as the movie starts up. Nate hums noncommittally. He really couldn't say.

“Was this one off grindr?” he asks, when Tyson doesn't say anything else.

“Yeah,” he says. “Guys always think that cause you're an athlete you wanna push them around and say a bunch of macho bullshit. Which is exhausting. I just wanna hang out and maybe hook up ya’know?”

Nate does not know. He finds hooking up with strangers stressful and terrifying. In juniors he had dated a friend of Sarah's, and then when she had dumped him to go to university, he'd sorta-dated a guy who played for Dalhousie. He doesn't really know how to have sex with a stranger. It seems horrifyingly vulnerable to do any of the weird things sex demands, talking about sex, being naked, with someone you don’t know at all.

“That sucks,” he says, and Tyson nods.

“Yeah, he got kind of annoyed when I told him to stop being dramatic,” Tyson pauses, and then winces. “Probably shouldn't have said that.”

“Maybe not,” Nate agrees. He's never fully understood what percentage of the blame is Tyson’s, when these things go sour, but it always seems at least partially his fault. The movie is doing some kind of scene by a pool, but Nate can't be bothered to skim the subtitles.

Tyson reaches up to scratch his scalp, running his fingers through his hair just the way Nate likes.

“Sorry, you're wiped, I'll stop talking now,” he says. Nate shakes his head in a token protest, even though his eyes are already falling closed. There's an optional skate tomorrow, and he wants to go. He needs the sleep.

“It's fine,” he says, but Tyson scoots down the bed, one hand on the laptop, so they're horizontal, heads resting on the pillows. Nate yawns and hears his jaw click. Tyson lifts his eyebrows as if to say “see?”.

“Go to sleep Nate,” he says, and Nate makes a face but closes his eyes. He's asleep in seconds, dreaming of nothing he can remember.

&&&

When he wakes up, he's cold, and hungry, and he needs to piss. Tyson’s stolen all the covers, as usual, and he considers wrestling some off him, still sprawled and snoring, until his stomach and bladder reassert themselves as his most immediate needs. Ugh. He climbs out of bed and goes to piss, and then goes to get food. In the door of the bedroom, he pauses. Tyson’s sprawled on his back on his back, one of his arms thrown out to where Nate was sleeping. There's a long pillow crease down his face, and he's snoring loudly.

He closes the bedroom door behind him carefully, trying not to wake Tyson. He needs his sleep. They're all pulling hard at this season, and Tyson’s minutes keep climbing. He shouldn't be going out at night, really, it’s not good for him or his game. Nate’s still a little grumpy he called so late, and a little annoyed Tyson didn’t order an Uber to his own house. He’s not his boyfriend and it’s not fair for Tyson to treat him like that.

He pauses in front of his kitchen cabinets and then leans forward to bump his head against the door. He’s being an idiot, and Tyson is treating him like a friend. He bangs his head again. Maybe he can kill all his brain cells and forget that he’s such a moron.

He sighs, still resting his head against the kitchen cabinet. Get it together Mackinnon, he thinks, and then stands up and opens the door. He’s got bread, and there’s some cold cuts somewhere. He’s not up to cooking.

He eats a sandwich standing in his kitchen, feeling tired and a bit sore from a fall yesterday, until he finishes the last bite and shakes himself out of it. He's gonna go wake Tyson up, make him eat, and then they'll get in the car and go to optional skate. He's been feeling this fuzzy, draining not-quite-sadness on and off for months now, striking at the strangest times. He wishes it would go away, or that he could figure out what causes it. He's not really got a clue to be honest.

He pushes away from the kitchen island and goes to go wake Tyson up.

&&&

Optional skate feels good. Gabe’s been told to rest, but Mikko is there and they run two-on-one breakaways until Tyson slides across the ice on his stomach shouting “Uncle, uncle, I surrender!”

He slides within reach of EJ, who pokes him in the shoulder gently with his stick.

“C'mon drama queen, we're doing edges next,” he says. Tyson looks up.

“Drama queen? Okay, you do breakaways with them then!” he says. EJ pokes him again.

“No, get up,” he says, and Tyson climbs onto his skates with a sigh.

“Fine, fine,” he says, and skates after EJ. Nate can hear him grumbling. Mikko skates up alongside, coming to a stop with a scraping sound.

“What’s up?” he asks, tapping his stick against Nate’s shin guard. Nate shakes his head. Tyson’s skating heavy on his left side, and it makes a faint ache start up at the base of Nate’s skull. He hates it whenever anyone’s injured.

“Huh, what?” he says, when Mikko tapes his shin again. Mikko looks back at him steadily.

“You wanna do passes?” he asks, slowly. Nate shrugs.

“Sure,” and Mikko skates backwards, towards the pile of pucks.

There’s plans to go out after skate, and Nate watches Mikko and G mess around in the change room, wrestling and chirping each other. Mikko’s holding G off one-handed, easily, and it’s pretty funny to watch. He and Tyson are both laughing, and they make eye contact across the room, and Nate feels his headache pull back a little. Tyson’ll be fine.

They share Ubers to the bar, EJ loudly coordinating from the head of the group and no one listening, like any time they try and do anything as a group. Tyson waits till Nate’s uber arrives, and climbs in with him, their legs pressed against each other in the back seat, EJ up front complaining about the twist in his new show. Tyson’s arguing with him, and Nate knows for a fact Tyson’s not seen this show, that he’s just starting shit, EJ getting all worked up about it. For a second, Tyson looks sideways, catching Nate’s eye with a sly smile, and he can’t help himself from laughing, tucking his face into the back of Tyson’s shoulder to smother it.

“What?” EJ says. “Huh, what’s so funny assholes?”

Nate just waves a hand, still giggling. The Uber pulls over a few minutes later, and they clamber out of the car on the sidewalk. Gabe’s waiting outside the bar, leaning against the brick looking at his phone, until he hears them and looks up.

“Woah, no, you are supposed to be resting Landeskog,” Tyson says, still going for a hug when Gabe opens his arms. Gabe rolls his eyes.

“Sure, _mom_ , I’m resting, I’m not a fucking invalid, it’s fine.”

Gabe hugs everyone quickly, JT and Josty continuing a conversation over his head.

“Hey,” Gabe says to Nate, the last in the group, and goes for the bro hug. Nate pats his back.

“How you feeling?” he asks. Gabe shrugs.

“I feel fine, they're just being careful,” he says, and Nate nods. “C'mon, let's get a drink, or we'll be out here arguing with these nerds all night.”

The bar’s nice. It was EJ’s choice, and there's a lot of brick, and a lot of beers Nate’s never heard of. He chooses one at random and orders for Tyson, and carries his beer and a jack and coke back to the table.

He puts the jack and coke in front of Tyson, who looks up and smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling up.

“Thanks man,” he says. EJ looks up.

“Hey, dog, why don't I get a drink?” he says, raising his hands. Nate flips him off.

“I couldn't be bothered to get you a straw to get past your dentures,” Nate snarks back, and the rest of the table laughs.

“Jokes on you,” EJ says, pulling back lips to show his empty gums. “I'm not wearing them.”

“Ugh, EJ, put it away,” Tyson says, wrinkling his nose.

“Whatever losers,” EJ says, standing to go to the bar. “My mother says I'm handsome just as I am.”

“Yeah that's what she told me last night,” JT says, which dissolves into a wrestling match, ending when EJ manages to get JT with a noogie.

Tyson dodges a flying elbow, laughing, and Nate snorts at the stupid expression on EJ’s face. His team are idiots.

They go back and forth to the bar for a few hours, Gabe ruthlessly vetoing hockey tactics discussion, although they all occasionally veer off into talking about where they think Tavares is gonna go (Tyson’s betting Tampa, which makes them all groan), or the draft, or offseason training plans. Everyone throws bottle caps at him when he mentions Sid. He's on a strict no-Sid mentions regime.

“Your crush is adorable,” Tyson says, patting his arm fake-comfortingly after he's dodged all the bottle caps and batted away the balled up napkin Gabe threw. Nate rolls his eyes.

“I do not have a _crush_. We are _friends_ ,” he says, knowing it'll be pointless. They've had this argument before.

“Mmhmm,” Tyson hums, kinda sarcastically. “Tell that to that poster of Sid you _definitely_ jerked off too.”

“Uh, god, Tyson, gross!” Nate says, and shoves him with his shoulder. Tyson rolls with it laughing, climbing out of the booth seat. Nate had jerked off to that poster, but it had only been a couple times before he had made himself stop, and Tyson did not need to know that. It was embarrassing enough inside Nate’s own head.

“I'm gonna go get a drink, don't worry I'll get you a beer. You can drown your sorrows over Sidney Crosby being too old for your baby ass,” Tyson says, waving a hand when Nate made a face at him.

Tyson doesn't come back from the bar for a while, longer than it should take, and Nate’s about to go look for him and demand why his apology beer is taking so long, when Gabe looks up and says “Barrie’s at it again.”

Nate looks over where Gabe is looking, and Tys is leaning on the bar, looking up at a guy in a clearly considering way. Nate’s seen that expression before. The guy's taller than Tyson, nearly Nate’s height, and obviously puts on muscle for show rather than use. His back’s to Nate and Gabe but he's wearing a tanktop and Nate can see the dragon tattoo on his shoulder. Gabe puts his chin in his hand like he's evaluating a play.

“Huh. I thought he was with that guy, what was his name? The one he brought to the barbeque,” Gabe says. Nate shakes his head.

“Nah, they broke up. Like a month ago?” he says. It's not Gabe’s business that that relationship had tipped itself into a downward spiral months before that, and Tyson had darkly recognised that it had been barely held together for a long time before the official end. Tyson had drank a truly terrifying amount of straight vodka and then come and lain on Nate’s sofa, outlining the horrifying process of decay between burying his head in a pillow and screaming.

Gabe shrugs.

“He alright?” he asks. Nate tips his head at the bar, where Tyson had put his hand on the guy's bicep and not taken it off. The guy's tan, and Tyson’s hands are ice-pale. He can’t stop looking.

“He's fine,” Nate says. Everything is fine, he adds to himself, trying to be stern. When Tys and Noah, the last guy, had broken up, the regular bloom of hope had risen in his chest, only to fade out in the face of Tyson’s clear preference for serial hooking-up. Nate felt this way every time Tyson broke up with whoever he was dating, and it always resolved itself eventually, back into the fond friendship that Nate honestly thought he preferred. He was lucky. He'd had such a crush on Tyson in his rookie year, when he was young and dumb and Tyson was older and had been in the show a couple years already, and was handsome and funny. Nate still cringed internally thinking about the intensity of the crush,and it had been nice to come back from his first offseason to realise that he _liked_ Tyson, that Tys liked him too, that they were _friends_. That was worth a lot more than a stupid crush, and the ghost of soft emotion that crush had left behind.

“Guess I'm getting my own beer then, you want something?” he asks Gabe. He shakes his head, and Nate climbs out of the booth and walks over to the bar, leaning against it behind Tyson. He'd seen Nate come over, he knew he was there The bartender takes his order and he's watching her pour his beer when Tys laughs at something the guy said, and then twists, catching Nate’s eye.

“Hey, this is my best friend Nate. Nate, this is Jake.”

Jake sticks his hand out, and Nate shakes it.

“Nice to meet you,” he says politely. Nate nods.

“You too,” and takes his beer when the bartender puts it in front of him. It barely takes a second for Tyson’s attention to flick back to Jake, and away from Nate, and he goes back to their table with his head down. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. He can live without Tyson’s attention for a few hours.

An hour later, he has to admit to himself he might have been wrong. Tyson hasn't come back from the bar and he's watched Jake make Tyson laugh three times, each time Tyson tipping his head back and inching closer. He's watched Tyson flirt before. It had been torture every time. Tyson has the subtlety of a puck to the face, and Nate is as vulnerable to him as he had been on his first day on the team. He finishes his beer, nodding along to something EJ’s saying. When EJ finishes, Nate goes to the bar and comes back with two beers, carefully skirting Tyson and his new friend.

EJ reaches for one of Nate’s beers when he comes back to the table, but Nate slaps his hand away.

“No, these are so I can listen to you talk about horses more without killing anyone, _Erik_ ,” he says sarcastically. EJ raises his hands up.

“Sorry, geez, who made you team asshole? I thought that was Nail’s job,” he says.

Nail looks up from his beer down the table.

“What?” he says, loudly to be heard over the chatter.

“You're an asshole!” EJ says back, and Nail grins, raising a hand to flip him off cheerfully. By the time EJ turns around again, Nate’s already taking a long pull from his first beer.

“You don't wanna talk about horses, you can just say,” EJ says, a little put out. Nate waves a hand.

“No, it's fine, go on man,” he says. “C'mon, I wanna see pictures.”

EJ reaches for his phone, attempting to disguise how happy he is.

Two beers later, and Nate’s feeling comfortably warm. He doesn't need to hang out with Tyson, he's got his team. His team are awesome. They're good friends. He's listing into Gabe’s side, and he feels kind of sleepy, warm and light all over. Not drunk, just tipsy enough it's a good night but it won't hurt too much tomorrow. It's a hard balance to hit, and he's so pleased with himself for getting it right.

Tyson stops by the table when Nate’s luxuriating in the feeling, and his stomach immediately does a strange, uncomfortable flip. Tyson’s so cute, he thinks to himself, and he loves Tyson’s arms, and his face, and, he scrunches up his face. He needs to stop thinking this stuff. It's not fair on anyone.

“Someone's having a good time eh?” Tyson says, raising his eyebrows. Gabe puts an arm around Nate.

“How would you know Barrie?” he says. “Whatever happened to bros before hoes huh?”

Gabe’s had a bit to drink to, but he also loves making fun of Tyson. He gestures sort of vaguely at Jake, who's standing a discreet distance away, clearly waiting for Tyson.

“I'm gay, you drunk idiot,” Tyson says, deadpan.

“Pssh,” Gabe says, getting some spit on the side of Nate’s face. “Hoe is a equal opportunity word.”

Tyson laughs a little.

“Well this hoe just got an opportunity, I'm bailing, I'll see you guys tomorrow,” he says, and waves to the whole table. Most everyone waves back. Chirping Tyson about a hookup is a sure way to get something uncomfortable in your equipment. Nate waves as well.

“Bye Tyson,” he says, and Tyson smiles.

“See you later dogg, don't drink too much,” he says, and then turns away. As they walk away, Jake's hand comes to rest on the join of Tyson’s neck and shoulder, and Nate can't watch anymore. He slowly rolls up to sitting and then puts his head down on the table. It’s sticky, unpleasant, and nice and dark. He likes this table.

“Woah, woah, woah, man down,” he hears Gabe say above his head, and then a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon Mac, up we go.”

Gabe pulls at his shoulder until he lifts his head. Nate looks at him balefully.

“Can we go home?” he asks, but Gabe’s already pushing him to standing.

“Yeah we can buddy let's go,” he says, keeping a hand on his shoulder. “Bye guys, Mac's had a few too many. I'm taking him home.”

EJ just waves, and Nail and Mikko raise a hand. JT and Jost kinda jeer about him leaving early, but Gabe just steers them away and outside to call an Uber. Nate lets him and shrugs his coats higher on his shoulders. Its cold. A car pulls up.

“C'mon Nate,” Gabe says and he follows. In the car he slumps onto Gabe’s shoulder and Gabe wriggles to put an arm around his shoulders.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, once the car pulls out. Nate nods, watching the night-time lights blur past them.

“I'm fine,” he says. Gabe scratches at his hair, gently, and Nate hates him for knowing him so well, and is still so comforted at the same time. Gabe hums thoughtfully.

“Let's say I didn't believe you,” he says gently, “and you told me what's really wrong.”

Nate huffs. Gabe’s hard to lie to.

“It's nothing, it's just Tyson,” he says, and then rolls his head so he can look up. Gabe’s making a face.

“That doesn't sound like nothing,” he says. “Are you fighting?”

Nate shakes his head. God, he hasn't fought with Tyson, well, ever really. What do they have to fight about?

“No, it's just me,” he says. “I'm being stupid. It's fine.”

Gabe opens his mouth like he's about to argue. Nate runs a hand over his face. For fuck’s sake, he does not want to fight with Gabe about this.

“Gabe, just drop it. Please?” he sounds tired, and fed-up, and that's because he is. He knows this feeling will pass, and he doesn't need Gabe on his back about it.

The Uber pulls over and the driver looks back.

“Your stop bro,” he says, and Gabe’s expression closes up. He'll leave it alone, Nate thinks, as long as Nate can hold it together. He wants to hold it together. Gabe unravels his arm from around Nate and gives him a little push.

“See you later man,” he says. Nate nods, and climbs out of the car. His house is dark and empty as he kicks his shoes off in the hallway, one hand resting on the wall to steady himself. He'd moved into Factor’s old condo because he'd had a lot of good memories here, and it'd seemed like Factor had liked it, but now Nate worries he's filling it with his loneliness, with the bitter edge of his stupid feelings. He falls into bed with just his boxers on, already fed up with himself for wallowing. He’s ready to get over himself.

He wakes up, struggling through the weeds of a fading dream, not sure what's real and what's the dream, until he realises the knocking sound isn't fading. Someone's knocking on his door. Also his head hurts. Urgh.

He grabs a pair of shorts off his floor and stumbles to his front door, peering through the peephole. Oh for fuck’s sake. Tyson’s holding a Dairy Queen bag in his teeth, and a Blizzard in each hand, using his foot to kick the door.

Nate watches him rearrange the bag and drinks until his mouth is free

“C'mon Mac I know you're in there!” he says loudly, just short of a shout. It's still early. Mac's neighbours haven't complained at him yet, but yet is the crucial word there. He pulls open the door, just as Tyson’s pulling back for another kick.

“Oh hey,” he says. “Let me in, I brought food.”

“Sure,” Nate says, wishing he was back asleep. Tyson doesn't even bother detouring to the living room, just walks straight into Nate’s bedroom. Nate hears him groan loudly through the open door.

He closes the door, and looks at the ground for a second before he picks himself up and follows Tyson into his room. He is actually hungry, and Dairy Queen usually makes him feel better.

Tyson’s put the bag on Nate’s bedside table and is lying stomach-down on his side of Nate’s bed, the side Nate doesn't sleep on, sipping his blizzard through a straw. He looks up, flops over and groans again, closing his eyes.

“I'm so hungover,” he says to the room. Nate sits on the bed, his back against the headboard, and rifles through the contents of the paper bag. Fries, two boxes of chicken strips, onion rings. He sticks some fries in his mouth.

“You shouldn't have kept drinking after you left,” he says, around the fries. Tyson waves the hand not still holding his blizzard, as if to brush that thought away.

“I know, I know. We went to another bar as we left, and he kept buying me drinks,” Tysons says, as if that’s any kind of explanation. Nate eats his fries and waits for more. Tyson’s a talker.

“We went back to his, and it was okay I guess. I mean, he wanted to do poppers, but the last thing I need is that appearing in a PED test, y'know?” he says, to his blizzard, gesturing the whole time. Nate puts more fries in his mouth. He likes Tyson’s stories. They're always ridiculous, and about a kind of person Nate doesn't think he'll ever be. He's spent his whole life caring about a handful of things, and evaluating all other risks as not worth it. Tyson seems to evaluate risk in such a completely different way, and Nate likes it, as long as he doesn't have to do it himself.

Tyson makes a slurping sound when he finishes the Blizzard, and he rolls over to put it on the ground. He rolls back to look up at Nate pitifully.

“C'mon, give me one of the onion rings,” he says, poking Nate in the side. Nate rolls his eyes dramatically but reaches into the bag to hand Tyson one. Tyson chews and rolls onto his back, looking at the ceiling.

“Anyway, we fucked and it was fine,” Tyson says, “but he totally kicked me out this morning, and I offered him my number, and he said no, which sucks.”

Nate puts some of his fries back in the bag. Tyson said that like it didn't matter to him what this random guy thinks of him, but Nate knows the truth. Tyson cares deeply and painfully about what everyone thinks of him, from the most distant stranger through to the fans, the team, all the way up to Joe Sakic, a never-ending list of people who could think or believe or say something hurtful.

“Hey,” Nate says, when Tyson doesn't say anything else. Tyson blinks.

“It's fine,” he says. “I should have figured it out at the bar. He was kinda mean.”

“C'mon man,” Nate says, and tugs at Tyson’s elbow until he rolls over and Nate can pull him up to wrap his arms around him, Tyson’s face tucked into his side with plausible deniability. Nate doesn't mind if he cries, but Tyson usually wants to at least be able to pretend he didn't.

“I just wish I could choose someone good, y'know,” Tyson says, muffled. Nate nods, and puts his hand on Tyson’s head, his thumb just touching the soft skin behind his ear. “Someone nice y'know?”

Nate wants that too. Tyson deserves someone crazy about him.

“It's not you, y'know that right Tys? That guy was an asshole. You'll find someone,” Nate says, scrunching his fingers through Tyson’s hair. Tyson rolls his head, sort of like a nod, and Nate lets it go. Tyson lies curled into Nate’s side for a while, and Nate uses his free hand to finish his fries and slurp at the half-melted Blizzard. Finally, Tyson rolls back onto his back. His eyes are dry, but he's a little red, an embarrassed, frustrated flush down his cheeks. Tyson blinks up at him.

“I make a lot of bad choices, don't I?” he asks, matter-of-factly. Nate thinks about it for a split second, but they all know it's true. Tyson’s cycling roster of short-term boyfriends that the team have never liked, and who it's often been unclear if Tyson had liked either, and the hookups Nate’s met or heard of are testament to that. He nods.

“Yeah, I kinda wish you would stop,” he says quietly. Tyson raises his eyebrows like he's surprised.

“I'm not really sure I know how,” he says, and rolls back to tuck his face into Nate’s side.

&&&

Just as Nate had predicted, the painful longing fades with a few weeks of persistent interaction with Tyson. They play a game, and lose, but he gets a goal and Tyson gets an assist. Gabe’s injury is cleared, and he has a fight the very next game. Nate and Tyson grin at each other as they push spare Wild players into the boards. It’s good to have the gang back together. Some asshole clocks G and EJ goes completely ballistic, and pulls half the skaters into a fight, brawling until they get pulled apart. They win the game, and Nate makes the highlight reel. Tyson hooks up with some guy with a shaved head in Dallas, who won't leave when Tyson asks and Nate has to wake Gabe up so they can go over to Tyson’s room and make him leave. Tyson sleeps in Nate’s room that night.

They go back to Denver, and win two more games on the trot. They go to practice, and skate, and Tyson has a feud with the assistant defence coach that Nate doesn't really understand. Nate tweaks his shoulder and misses a game, then gets back, and then Tyson blocks a puck with his foot in St. Louis.

He whines and complains all the way to the plane, and then takes a percocet and passes out on Nate’s shoulder, drooling. He wakes him up when they land and wipes the drool off his shoulder onto Tyson’s shirt, since he's too groggy to care.

“Gross,” Gabe says, leaning over the back of the plane seat. Tyson blearily lifts a hand to give him the finger. “You want any help getting him home?”

Tyson’s sweatpants are rolled up on one side, his foot swaddled in bandage where it’s swollen, and slipped into an extra large slide. Nate helps leverage him up to standing, and then slips a shoulder under Tyson’s arm. They have to limp sideways down the plane aisle, but they’ll manage.

“We’ll be okay,” Nate says, once they’re standing. “Help me get his bag to my car?”

Tyson falls asleep again once Nate’s got him off the plane and put him in the passenger seat of his car, the painkiller still working. Gabe opens his boot and puts Nate and Tyson’s duffel bags in together, before adjusting his own bag slung over one shoulder.

“Don’t let him boss you around too much,” he says, smiling. “He’s just bruised.”

Nate waves a hand.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and Gabe turns to drive his own car home. Nate climbs into the driver’s seat, and looks at Tyson, the frown between his eyebrows, his mouth open in sleep. They’ll be fine.

By the time Nate’s pulling into his driveway it’s clear the percocet’s worn off, Tyson fidgeting in his seat and grumbling. The garage door opens slowly, and Nate pulls in, putting the car in park as the garage door slides closed behind them.

“Wait here,” he says, and climbs out, grabs their bags out of the back of the car, and goes to dump his on the kitchen table, Tyson’s next to the guest bed. When he gets back to the garage, he can hear Tyson’s laboured breathing from the other side of the truck, and when he gets round to the passenger side, he’s half-in, half-out of the door, holding himself up on the door handle, breathing too quickly, his face white from pain.

“I said wait you dumbass,” Nate says, before he ducks forward and gets a shoulder under Tyson’s arm, helping his limp into the house. Tyson hisses when they go up the couple of steps from the garage, and leans harder onto Nate’s shoulder.

“Fuck that puck,” he says, as they go through the house. Nate smiles, and focuses on keeping them balanced.

“You’re a dumbass,” he says. “Next time let someone else stop it.”

Tyson just huffs, and Nate lowers him to sit on the bed, helps him out of his sweatpants, slides the slide off his foot.

“I’m gonna get the peas, you want anything?” he asks, as Tyson pulls off his shirt. He shakes his head. Nate goes to the freezer and digs out the old bag of peas from the bottom freezer, wraps it in a dish towel, and carries it back to the guest bedroom. Tyson’s slept in it before when he's injured, or after a night out, and he's already wriggled under the blankets, leaving his foot uncovered. Nate helps him arrange the peas around it and pats his knee before he goes.

“Thanks man,” Tyson says, when Nates in the doorway, and he stops to look back, Tyson’s pained face trying to smile, propped up against the pillows, his bare shoulders. Nate’s used to the pain of longing now, the way it'll flare up suddenly and strangely without warning, but he's used to injuries now too and the pain of a broken bone, a sprained shoulder, each of them is new and different, impossible to prepare for.

He licks his lip, his mouth suddenly dry, and nods.

“No worries,” he says, and closes the door softly.

In his own room, he strips, crawls into bed, closes his eyes and tries not to think about it. He’s been deliberately not thinking about Tyson, about Tyson’s bare chest, the shape of his pec muscle, the divot in the centre of his chest. Tyson with a swollen foot on a lot of percocet isn’t hot, but the idea of Tyson half-naked in his guest bedroom definitely is, and Nate rolls over to half bury his face in pillow and groans. God, he really shouldn’t. He reaches into his boxers, and wraps his hand around his dick, keeping his eyes closed and tries to think about nothing, the normal things he jerks off thinking about: the time he’d had sex in his car by the lake, exhilarated by the idea of getting caught, the best blowjob he’d ever gotten from his boyfriend during juniors. He gets his knees under himself so he can rock in his hand, moving the foreskin back and forth over the head of his dick slickly. Fuck, there isn’t a thought hot enough to obliterate the thought of Tyson, with his shirt off in the change room laughing at a joke, in the weight room with the muscles of his arms moving, smiling up at Nate from a bed in his house, oh god, oh fuck. His hand stops moving, but his hips don’t and he fucks his hand for a couple of breaths, trying to suck in air through his pillow, and then he groans, jerks all over, and comes into his hand, come striping his fingers.

He flops over, keeping his hand off his sheets, and lets his other hand drop over his face. He wants to slap himself.

“Ugh,” he says to himself quietly, and then rolls off the bed to stumble to his en-suite. He can pity himself without jizz all over his hand.

&&&

Tyson sleeps in Nate’s guest bedroom for three more nights, letting Nate feed them both from his limited repertoire of team approved recipes and wake him up in the middle of the night to take a painkiller and move his ankle so the muscles don’t tighten up around the swelling. Nate drives them both to the rink every morning, Nate to practice and Tyson to be iced and prodded and massaged, and then back home to watch tape and bicker about movies. On the third day, they’re certain he hasn’t broken anything, just bruised the crap out of his foot, and he’s cleared to go home.

Nate jerks off watching porn that night, to keep his head clear of thoughts of Tyson. It’s an old favorite, a guy getting fingered and jerking off, the camera focussed on the fingers sliding over and over into his hole, the sound of his moans the only soundtrack. Nate’s watched it a million times, and it’s always a guaranteed injection of arousal straight into his brainstem. He jerks off watching it and comes and doesn’t think about Tyson even once, completely relieved. Rolling over to sleep, he decides to forget about it. It was just once. It’s fine.

&&&

Tyson’s foot heels for an excruciating three weeks. None of them like having him off the line up, and Tyson hates it even more than they do, complaining incessantly, and griping his way through modified workouts in the weight room. He travels with them the last two weeks, and Nate expects him to at least pick up once or twice, but nothing happens. Tyson comes to Nate’s room to watch tv, or both of them go to Gabe’s room to play cards, and Tyson doesn’t mention anyone at all.

They go out for a team dinner in New York, Tyson parked at the end of their long table with his foot extended out. There’s a good atmosphere. They’ve strung together a couple of wins, Tyson’s the only injury, EJ’s horse won -something, Nate wasn’t paying attention. They pass a couple of bottles of wine around the table, joking and chirping, Tyson the centre of everyone’s attention even from the end of the table.

“I think I could do better than your ugly face, Erik,” Tyson says primly, after EJ makes a dirty suggestion, and waggles his eyebrows.

“What, you got a hot date tonight?” EJ says. Tyson sticks his tongue out.

“I don’t need a hot date to know that anyone dating you is scraping the bottom of the barrel, eh toothless?” he chirps, and EJ rolls his eyes.

“Oh, going for the teeth, very creative Tys,” he says, but Tyson got a few laughs. Chirps are about results, not creativity.

“Anyway,” Tyson says, to Nate next to him, and Gabe nearby, “I’ve taken myself off the market for a little while.”

Both of them look up, Gabe with a piece of broccoli sticking out of his mouth as he chews quickly.

“What, really?” he says, after he swallows. Tyson frowns.

“Hey, don’t act so surprised, I can make mature decisions,” he says. Gabe’s eyebrows furrow.

“I mean yeah maybe, I’ve just never seen you make one on purpose,” he says, holding his deadpan. Tyson flips him off and saws at his steak.

“Look,” he says candidly, “hooking up clearly wasn’t working, and, to be honest, was making me feel like shit. So I’m stopping for a little while. Being single is fine.”

He stabs his steak and sticks some in his mouth, chewing stubbornly. Nate keeps his gaze fixed on a point over Tyson’s shoulder.

“That sucks Tys,” he says quietly, and Tyson shrugs, as if to say ‘it is what it is’.

“Well, you guys don’t have to come kick douchebags out of my room anymore. Maybe we can pick up some more points if I stop making you wake up in the middle of the night,” he says. It’s not a great joke but Gabe chuckles and reaches over to push at Tyson’s shoulder.

“Come back and get those points yourself asshole,” Gabe says, and Nate puts more steak in his mouth, chews, redirects his thoughts towards the game tomorrow. Tyson’s not sleeping with anyone, especially not him. It’s fine.

&&&

They win in New York, and then lose four times in a row, completely depressingly. Tyson comes back a game into the losing streak and it makes no difference. Nate wants to bounce his own head off the boards in front of the bench, watching them get scored on. He hates losing and he hates watching them lose from the bench. Gabe is grim after the fourth loss, too serious to shake it off, and Tyson takes one look at both of them before he stands up and bangs his water bottle against his stall. Eventually the change room quiets down.

“Right, we’re all going out tonight, no excuses,” he says. “I want a proper welcome back.”

“Hey, I scored for you,” EJ says, always giving Tyson a hard time. Tyson waves a hand.

“And then you let two pucks in, Johnson, so maybe you can buy me a fucking beer huh?” Tyson chirps, and a couple of the guys laugh when EJ makes an outraged face. Nate smiles. Tyson always knows how to cut through the tension of a loss, when Gabe would just make everyone angrier, and Nate would fumble the words. Tyson grins at him as he pulls off his chest protector. He knows what he's doing.

Between all of them, they manage to assemble the caravan of Ubers they need, and then commandeer a cluster of booths in the back of EJ’s choice of bar. He always says it's alternate’s prerogative but also Nate has gotten to choose the bar approximately never. He's a dirty liar.

Tyson brings a tray of shots back to the table and fixes them all with a glare.

“Everyone's doing one, no Mikko stop trying to get away, you too,” he says, and starts passing them out. Mikko stops trying to shuffle out of the booth.

“What are we drinking to?” Gabe asks, raising one eyebrow, and Tyson lifts his shotglass.

“Fuck if I know,” he said and the paused, raising his glass. “Let’s not fucking lose so much, eh?”

A cheer goes up around the table, and Gabe’s lip quirk in an involuntary smile before they all tip their glasses and quickly drink. Nate has to shake his head after it goes down. It burns like fuck. Tyson grins at him.

The drinks go down quickly, getting passed around and bought in trays, rather than in ones and twos. Nate keeps up with Mikko and Gabe, but Tyson and the rookies outstrip them all. The bar lights go down, and the staff clear the tables off the dance floor. Kerfy and Josty and JT drag Z out to the dance floor before anyone else has worked up the courage, and look like idiots waving around to pop music. Nate gets a beer and refuses the shots G brings to the table, watching him and Tyson play a drinking game with Nail and EJ, and Mikko as well, clearly there against his will.

Gabe puts his arm along the back of the booth, and Nate feels the warmth of his hand on his shoulder. No one’s injured, no one’s sick, everyone’s happy. There’s no outside reason they’re losing. They’re just...not good enough. That feels worse. He tips his head back and looks sideways at Gabe.

“Our forecheck sucked,” he says. Gabe grips his shoulder and shakes him a little.

“Quit it,” he says. “Think about it tomorrow.”

Nate rolls his eyes.

“But I’m thinking about it now,” he says, knows he’s whining.

Gabe looks at him directly.

“Nate, Tyson’s doing his bit. You can too.”

Nate shrugs. He's never been any good at this stuff, making himself be happy when he's not. He's happy when he's happy. He's sad when he's sad, angry when he feels angry. Anything else seems too complicated. Gabe takes his hand off Nate’s shoulder and leans over a little to push at him with his shoulder, making Nate shuffle over a little in the booth.

“C'mon Mac, go have some fun,” he says. “Tyson misses you.”

It’s true that Tyson keeps looking his way, licking his lips and waiting for Nate’s smile. He's just being grumpy and it's not fair to everyone else, to not be pulling his weight at team bonding. They gave him the A for a reason, and he's not sure what reason but he's been trying to live up to it regardless. Gabe pushes him again and Tyson’s looking at him from the other table, red-faced and drunk. He drains the last of his beer and pulls himself to his feet, goes over to rub shoulders with Tyson standing at the end of the table where he's corralled Mikko and EJ and Nail.

He feels a little light-headed, but Tyson puts a shot in front of him and explains the rules of the game, EJ interrupting half way through to wave a hand.

“Mac’s smart, he'll figure it out, c’mon let's go, Mikko go,’ he says quickly, and Mikko starts counting, which is confusing. Nate loses the game a lot, and more people join, attracted by their shouting. JT and Kerfy bring a few girls from the dance floor, and then more of them of them drift back out to the dance floor. Tyson pulls him by the forearm.

“C'mon Mac, show us the moves,” he says, laughing when Nate dances, but in a way that makes it clear it's fun, it's just jokes. He disappears between dancers and leaves Nate to the rookies, and then comes back with jagerbombs, one in each hand. Kerfy tries to steal one, and Tyson has to fend him off, spilling half the coke over his hand.

“No, no, no, this is for Mac, get away,” Tyson says, tucking himself into Nate’s personal space, swaying a little and too warm when Nate puts a hand on his shoulder. Nate downs the drink, and shuffles off to the side of the dance floor to leave the glass on the side, Tyson following after him pulling at his bicep. When he turns around, his back’s to the wall of the bar, and it’s dark, Tyson looking up at him. His lips are wet and shiny from the Jäger, and his eyes are big into the flashing lights.

“Tys,” he says quietly, but it’s too late, Tyson leans up and his lips touch Nate’s just as his open to say Tyson’s name. He tastes sweetly of Jager, and his tongue licks into Nate’s mouth for one intoxicating second. It's a wet, uncoordinated kiss, and it's the sound of Tyson’s moan that reminds Nate of where he is, what they're doing.

He grabs Tyson’s shoulders and pushes him away gently.

“Tyson stop,” he says. He's so, he's so angry. Why does Tyson think it's okay to do this to him? Tyson doesn't seem to hear him because he pushes back against Nate’s hands, rolling his neck. He's drunk.

“No, c'mon Nate, no one can see, it's fine,” he slurs, trying to rub his face against Nate’s arm. “I want to,” he adds, devastatingly. What Nate wouldn't give for Tyson to want him. But that's not right, he wouldn't give anything, he wouldn't give their friendship, he won't trade his own happiness. Kissing Tyson will just make him miserable, because it's five thousand times worse to have kissed him and still know that Tyson doesn't want him, not like that. It'll be worse to have a few moments of kissing Tyson drunk in a bar and then another lifetime of seeing him hookup with other people. Nate can't do that. He doesn't know how to have someone for a moment and not want them forever.

Nate shakes Tyson gently, to get his wandering, drunk attention.

“No Tyson,” he says. “This isn't fair. You can’t do this to your friends.”

Tyson looks up at him, leaning too heavily into his hands because he can't keep his balance.

“Nate, please, c'mon, I want someone good. You're always good to me,” he says, slurring a little, his blinks slightly too long. He tries to push forward to kiss Nate again, and Nate holds him away.

 

“Tys, no,” he says, and Tyson turns his head to nuzzle against Nate’s hand, leaving a wet mark with his tongue. Nate shakes him to get him to stop, but Tyson’s head rolls with it and it probably disorients him more. “Stop it,” he says, when Tyson tries again. “You're my best friend Tyson, this isn't okay. This is hurtful.”

&&&

Nate wakes up the next morning with his tongue stuck to the room of his mouth and the mother of all hangovers.

“Oh god,” he says, and rolls over so he can bury his face in his pillow. His head hurts, and his arms and legs have that strange pulsing soreness that only comes from a hangover. The absolute last thing he wants in the entire world is to get out of bed, or do anything. If he lays here long enough maybe he'll die and then he won't be hungover anymore. Sounds like a plan.

He tries to bury his face further into his pillow, and lays there for a while before he's forced to accept that he's probably not falling back asleep. He feels terrible. When he flicks his phone open, there's a handful of notifications. He flicks them away one by one, except for the texts.

 _drink some water_ says the text from Gabe, and then right after it _i left tys on your couch._

Nate sighs, and texts back _my head hurts i hate you._

He looks up when he hears a knock on his half-open door. Tyson sticks his head in.

“Hey,” he says quietly. He shoulders the door open gently, and he's got a glass of water in his hand. “I figured you might be feeling it.”

He comes closer and waits for Nate to sit up before he passes over the glass. Nate sips it carefully, and then suddenly finds he's ravenously thirsty, gulping the rest.

“Thanks,” he says, and puts the glass on his bedside table. Tyson shrugs, and climbs onto the empty side of the bed, sitting against the headboard. He's still wearing his clothes from last night, and smells slightly sourly of alcohol. Nate flicks through his instagram, trying to wait Tyson out. It's maybe a little mean, but he's still angry, and upset that Tyson would treat him like that. He's not gonna be another bad decision.

Eventually Tyson shifts a little, and turns to look at him.

“That was really shitty of me,” he says quietly, flatly. Nate nods.

“Yeah it was kinda,” he says, not looking up from his phone, even though he’s long stopped scrolling. He feels hollowed out, exhausted, and it's not just physical. He doesn't know how to separate the different threads of what he's feeling. They're completely tangled together, unavoidably. The long, bruising pain of longing is so inseparable from it all, he doesn't know if he could distinguish when it started, when it will end. He doesn't know if it ever will. He feels sick with it. The hangover just makes it all worse, all the confused feelings rising to the top like pond scum.

“I'm sorry,” Tyson says, and Nate shakes his head.

“It's okay. I get it,” he says back. He does kinda get it, just another stepping stone in the bad decisions that Tyson strings together, in the self-injury he unwaveringly pursues. He doesn't do it on purpose, but he does it anyway, over and over again.

Tyson pulls the duvet further up over his chest, twisting it in his hands, and shakes his head. It's surprising enough that Nate feels pulled to look up, dragged towards him. Tyson’s orbit had always been intoxicating. He’s felt like this since his first day in the show, that Tyson is smarter and funnier and cooler than him, and all he wants is Tyson to look his way.

“It’s not okay,” Tyson says stubbornly. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

His jaw’s square with tension, and a frown. Nate wants to reach out to him, touch the firmness of his mouth. He settles for putting his hand on Tyson’s shoulder and squeezing.

“I told myself I was done making bad choices,” Tyson says quietly. “I didn’t want to fuck up. I figured out what I wanted and I-” He runs a hand over his face. “I thought I could keep it together, I guess.”

Tyson burrows further under the duvet, until it's nearly under his chin, and he can lay his head on one of Nate’s pillows. It pulls the duvet down to uncover Nate’s bare chest, making him shiver.

“Tys,” he says, slowly, rapidly feeling like he's lost he thread of the conversation. “What do you mean?”

Tyson screws up his eyes like he's bracing himself.

“Nate, I, I've been wanting to kiss you for a long time.” He opens his eyes and Nate’s looking down into them, dark and wide. He feels completely wiped blank by surprise. “And I didn't really know what to do,” Tyson says quietly. “But I guess I was kind of a dumbass about it.”

There isn't anyone but him and Tyson in the whole world, in Nate’s mind. This is so completely outside the realm of any of his horribly private expectations. Tyson’s fingers grip the duvet tighter, and the lines around his eyes crinkle up with tension. He looks down, away from Nate, to stare woodenly at his side, the blank sheets of the duvet.

“Wait, no,” Nate says, knowing the moment is slipping away from him. He scoots down in the bed and tucks the duvet up over his shoulder so he can lie down with his face on the pillow across from Tyson’s. It's so strange doing this in Nate’s bed, but him and Tyson spend half their time here, eating, watching movies, napping, and it feels a safe and private place, just the two of them wrapped in the covers. “Tyson, I didn't know,” he says gently, when Tyson meets his eyes. He screws up his mouth bitterly in response.

“Yeah, well, I'm a dumbass,” he says. Nate smiles back.

“Yeah, definitely,” he says, and Tyson frowns quickly, releases one of his hands from the duvet to shove at Nate’s shoulder.

“Hey!” he says, and rolls with the shove. “You said it, man.”

Tyson still has all the signs of a frown between his eyebrows.

“Well, I'm sorry,” he says. “I said I was only going to make good decisions now, and I was so sure you were one, but I guess,” he trails off. Something painfully hopeful blooms inside Nate. Tyson thinks he's dependable. He thinks he could be a good decision.

“Tys,” he says quietly, and his deep brown eyes flick up to make eye contact. “Will you kiss me again?”

Tyson’s eyes widen in surprise, and both of his hands release their death grip on the duvet.

“Really?” he says, and Nate nods mutely. Tyson’s mouth is pink and soft-looking, wet in the center from his tongue, and Nate wants it, wants to feel Tyson kiss him in his bed in the morning.

Tyson licks his lips nervously, and slowly, more slowly that Nate would have wanted, leans in and their lips press together, softly and gently. Nate reaches up to grab Tyson’s shoulder and hold on tightly, pushing into the kiss. Tyson’s mouth opens, and Nate licks into his mouth, warm and soft, no sound but the rustling of the bed and their breathing. It’s intoxicating, the feeling of being this close, the barely-audible hitch in Tyson’s breath when they pull apart for a second before Nate’s pushing back in. He wants to kiss Tyson forever.

He’s sure a geologic age passes, because the most momentous kiss of his life must last more than a few minutes. Each pass of the kiss makes him feel light all over his body, like he’s weightless, kissing Tyson’s soft mouth and lying in his soft bed. God, it feels so good. He pulls Tyson closer until they're pressed chest to chest, and Tyson bites down on his bottom lip. He jolts, and Tyson pulls back.

“Sorry,” he says, his face close and pink. Nate shakes his head, and their noses bump against each other.

“I like it,” he whispers. Tyson’s smile lights up his whole face, and Nate ducks forward to kiss him again, shivering every time he gasps. He wants to find out everything that makes Tyson make that sound. His sick longing feels transmuted into an overwhelmed joy, a part of his brain fistpumping with excitement, every other part of him wanting to burrow deeper into the kiss. He breaks away, feeling breathless, and tucks his face into Tyson’s neck, kissing the shape of muscle on his shoulder. Surprisingly, gloriously, Tyson moans and stretches, letting Nate at more of his neck. It's so hot, the sounds Tyson’s making and both of their body heats under the covers. Without thinking it through too much, Nate pulls at Tyson and tries to roll them, pulling Tyson on top of him when he lets himself be moved. One of his hand slips under Tyson’s shirt and he feels the tight cut of his muscle, the softness of his belly, and something pulls in Nate’s gut, the hard and sudden punch of his arousal. He's wanted for so long and it's still surprising to be confronted with it head-on.

He slides his hand up Tyson’s chest, feeling the planes of it under his palm, and then retreating back when Tyson sits up and pulls his t-shirt over his head, throws it to the floor. His pink flush extends all the way from his neck down his chest, past his nipples. Tyson looks down at him, his expression unreadable with the flow of emotion. Slowly, Nate reaches up to curl his fingers around the back of Tyson’s neck and pull him down into a kiss, both of their bare chests pressing together. Now, the only clothes separating them are Tyson’s jeans, and they both seem to realise it at the same moment, their fingers tangling trying to undo Tyson’s fly.

“Why did you get dressed?” Nate asks exasperated, against Tyson’s mouth, as they both try to push his jeans down. Tyson laughs into a kiss, their lips bumping.

“I didn't think-" he says, rolling over onto his back to shimmy out of his jeans, but Nate never hears what he didn't think. He rolls over with him, to kiss his neck and pinch his nipples with one hand, and Tyson breaks off in a moan, finally, finally, kicking off his pants.

For a second, Nate has Tyson laid out below him, just as he wants him, on his back in his boxers and arching into Nate’s touches, but then Tyson rolls back on top of him, his thick thighs stretching across Nate’s. He grinds down, his hand on Nate’s shoulder, and it’s Nate’s turn to groan uncontrollably. He’s so hard, and Tyson is so hot, and the combination of that and the swirling maelstrom of his emotions is making him feel pretty overwhelmed.

Tyson leans down and Nate can only grip at his shoulders and back, pull him into a slick, desperate kiss, hoping some of his feelings come through in the press of their mouths. Tyson doesn't let the kiss break, just works their boxers down with one free hand, until he can get his hand around both their dicks. The friction is dry and catching, but deliciously good, and then Tyson rears back to lick his palm and then get his wet hand around both of them.

Nate has to screw his eyes closed, because seeing that is too much, Tyson’s wicked expression as he licks his hand, Tyson’s thick cock pressed up against his.

“Fuck,” he hears Tyson say, and then they're kissing again, Tysons mouth stuttering as he gasps for breath. He groans once, and jerks and comes over his hand and over Nate. It’s basically the hottest thing Nate’s ever experienced in his entire life. His hips move involuntarily, his cock dragging against Tyson’s softening dick and his stomach, made an easy glide by his come.

“Fuck, Tyson, you're so hot,” he says, not able to hold it back, grinding up, chasing the feeling. His shock and excitement are transformed into a desperate, nearly overwhelming, desire to come with Tyson watching. He wants it. He wants Tyson.

He can't hold back from the edge of his orgasm anymore, and he wraps his hand around his dick, the two of them still pressed so closely together that his knuckles bump against Tyson’s stomach with every upstroke. Tyson’s come makes his grip just wet enough to be good, and when he looks up Tyson’s head is also ducked down watching Nate’s hand, watching him jerk himself off.

“Fuck,” he says again. Tyson looks up and Nate catches a glimpse of his dark eyes, and the edge of a smile, before their mouths come together, and he feels the coil pulled tight in his belly release.

He slumps back against the bed, still breathing hard, and Tyson comes with him, nosing behind his ear and down his neck. Nate goes to wrap an arm around him and then realises his hand is still covered in come, some of it Tyson’s and starting to dry stickily. He makes a face and tries to wipe it on the sheets, and then Tyson giggles and pulls him back round.

“C'mon, cuddle me,” he says, and Nate feels helpless in the face of Tyson, his own emotions, the satiated, comfortable feeling of an orgasm, the remaining physical tiredness of his hangover. Tyson’s still got his socks on. Nate kisses him, and then pulls back so they're sharing a pillow and Nate can look at Tyson’s face, their legs tangled together to fit two big bodies close.

Tyson smiles at him.

“Hey dog,” he says goofily, and put his tongue between his teeth, and Nate couldn’t hold back the giggles, watch Tyson make faces at him. He desperately wants to quiz him, about the length and breadth of his feelings, but Tyson, like always, knows what he needs better than he does. Laughing feels good and seeing Tyson be normal, his same goofy self, pulls him back from the overwhelming precipice of his own feelings.

“Hey Tys,” he says back, putting his hand on Tyson’s hip, letting his thumb swing back and forth across the taut skin of his muscles. “I thought you said you weren't hooking up anymore?” he says, and then immediately wants to punch himself in the face. What an absolute fucking moronic, self-sabotaging question. Tyson’s eyes flicker and his mouth tenses up.

“Nate,” he says directly. “I was kind of thinking this wasn't a hookup. Maybe, like, a boyfriend kind of deal instead?”

He looks so hopeful, and in a thought that makes his stomach swoop Nate realises that Tyson’s string of bad decisions have been, unfailingly, a consistent pattern: optimism. Tyson’s always been optimistic about his chances, at a good date, a hookup, a relationship, even in the face of poor odds.

He keeps his hand on Tyson’s hip, still stroking mindlessly. They both have a lot to lose if things go wrong.

“What if it doesn't work out?” Nate asks quietly, feeling small and unsure, and a lot younger. It's kind of embarrassing, but he's been embarrassing himself in front of Tyson since day one. If he hasn't scared him off yet, it's probably fine. He’s always been a safe pair of hands for Nate’s collected worries.

“It's okay,” Tyson says, “I trust you.”

Nate inhales. How can he argue with that?

“What’d you say?” Tyson asks quietly, eyebrows raised. His face is still flushed, the pink spread across his nose and cheeks. Nate wants to kiss him, a familiar urge, much more new and exciting now he realises he can. He leans across the gap between them, and their lips touch, gently, Tyson’s mouth parting lightly, the softest kiss.

“Yeah,” he says gently, “let’s do it.”


End file.
